


unprofessional

by lyricalprose (fairylights)



Series: 2013 Fic Advent Calendar [12]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 2013 Fic Advent Calendar, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:51:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylights/pseuds/lyricalprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So last night–” Mickey starts off hesitant, like he’s not sure quite what to say, but it only lasts a moment. Then he shakes his head, as if giving up, and says, “You kissed me.”</p>
<p>Martha wants to melt into the floor and disappear, but Mickey just keeps on, blunt and to-the-point as ever. “An’ then you took off running.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	unprofessional

**Author's Note:**

> [pbabala](http://pbabala.tumblr.com) asked “For the advent calendar, could you write a first for Martha and Mickey? A first date, UNIT mission, first anything as long as it’s those two!”
> 
> Fill #12 for my [2013 fic advent calendar](http://lyricalprose.tumblr.com/tagged/2013-fic-advent-calendar).

The words of the autopsy report in front of her are beginning to blur together, and she’s had to stop and restart this dictation three times.  
  
Martha halts the transcription software for the third time in ten minutes and reaches for her coffee mug. It’s empty, of course. That’s just the sort of day she’s having, apparently – empty coffee cups and a mountain of work and a pounding headache from getting clocked over the head by a blowfish last night.  
  
And headache or no headache, she’s got _loads_ that needs doing. She should’ve had this and about four other reports recorded and filed by now, but she keeps tripping over her words or leaving important details out of the dictation, because she can’t stop thinking about last night. Can’t stop thinking about how _stupid_ she feels, about how sure she was that it was going to be different, about the look on his face when she pulled away.  
  
She can’t stop thinking about the fact that last night she kissed Mickey, and he didn’t kiss her back.

  
  
And because it’s just that sort of day, the appearance of the man himself is what interrupts her next stab at completing an intelligible dictation.  
  
The sound of a knock interrupts Martha just as she’s about to segue into a discussion of bite patterns found on the subject’s forearms. Her door’s actually already open – there aren’t any other offices in this part of the base, and no one tends to bother her unless it’s an emergency. Knocking is a courtesy she appreciates, though, and when she looks up she expects to see one of the on-duty COs, or perhaps one of the handful of soldiers who are due for various check-ups.  
  
Instead, she sees Mickey.  
  
He looks rather out of place, standing there in the doorway. His civilian clothes – dark jeans, sturdy boots, black jumper and jacket – are a stark contrast to the UNIT logo painted on the hallway wall just outside Martha’s office. He’s probably the only person in the building, other than her, that’s not in uniform. He still won’t join up properly, no matter how many times the brass ask. Instead, _independent contractor_ or _consultant_ are the words UNIT uses for Mickey, and they mean that Martha’s worked with him dozens and dozens of times in the last six months – investigating persistent atmospheric disturbances in Brighton, hunting down the (alien) source of water contamination in Leeds, corralling rogue blowfish in South London. He’s a brilliant field agent and a terrific shot and has a wicked sense of humor, and Martha has more _fun_ with him than she’s had with anyone in years.  
  
And last night she kissed him, in some dirty abandoned building just off the Embankment, and he’d frozen, motionless, and hadn’t kissed her back.  
  
“Hey,” he says quietly.  
  
Martha fumbles with her keyboard, hurrying to pause the transcription software yet again. “Mickey!” she sputters.  
  
Silence stretches between the two of them, interminable and thick, until Mickey finally breaks it by stepping into her office and clearing his throat.  
  
“So last night–” Mickey starts off hesitant, like he’s not sure quite what to say, but it only lasts a moment. Then he shakes his head, as if giving up, and says, “You kissed me.”  
  
Martha wants to melt into the floor and disappear, but Mickey just keeps on, blunt and to-the-point as ever. “An’ then you took off running.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out, staring very intently at her empty coffee cup in lieu of meeting Mickey’s eyes. “I’m – I’m _so_ sorry, it was unprofessional, and I didn’t – I mean, I thought–”  
  
“Martha.” Mickey tries to cuts her off, and his tone is serious; when she chances a look at his face, his expression appears even more so.  
  
She doesn’t let him cut her off, though, needing to finish apologizing, or explaining herself, or _something_. She stammers out stilted half-sentences, hoping, _praying_ that this won’t have to end the way things did with the Doctor, or with Tom – with her walking away, both times because she wasn’t what _he_ really wanted. She stands up while she’s talking, rounds her desk and goes to stand in front of it, as if maybe bridging the physical gap between them will help close this… _other_ one.  
  
“We can just forget it happened,” she says hurriedly, folding her arms across her chest and still avoiding Mickey’s eyes. “I know you’re not inter–”  
  
Martha only gets halfway through the last word, because by the second vowel Mickey has closed the distance between them, taken her face in his hands, and kissed her.  
  
“Um,” she says intelligently, when he finally pulls away. She surrenders, for a few moments, to a hazy state of vacant happiness, before she snaps to and promptly punches Mickey in the arm. “Why didn’t you do that last night, you plonker?”  
  
Mickey feigns pain at her light punch, rubbing at his arm and scowling good-naturedly. “They sorta carted you off to medical right quick, after that blowfish knocked you over the head,” he says, grinning at her. “Bloody inconvenient, that. Kinda threw a wrench into my plan for snoggin’ you senseless up against a wall somewhere.”  
  
He pauses for a moment, and then lifts a hand to gingerly touch the side of her head, his face concerned and questioning. “You _are_ all right, yeah? You seemed okay last night, even with the bump on the head, but I’m no doctor–”  
  
Martha quiets him with another kiss, and after they pull apart she murmurs, “Yeah. I’m okay.”


End file.
